self was often called an invention of the
devil.

The room was not ornamented, save by a crucifix, a pleasant
pencil-drawing of Bishop Laval, a gun, a pair of snow-shoes, a sword,
and a little shrine in one corner, wherein were relics of a saint. Of
necessaries even there were few. They were unremarkable, save in the
case of two tall silver candlesticks, which, with their candles at an
angle from the musician, gave his face strange lights and shadows.

The priest was powerfully made; so powerful indeed, so tall was he, that
when, in one of the changes of the music, a kind of exaltation filled
him, and he came to his feet, his head almost touched the ceiling. His
shoulders were broad and strong, and though his limbs were hid by his
cassock, his arms showed almost huge, and the violin lay tucked under
his chin like a mere toy. In the eye was a penetrating but abstracted
look, and the countenance had the gravity of a priest lighted by a
cheerful soul within. It had been said of Dollier de Casson that once,
attacked by two renegade Frenchmen, he had broken the leg of one and
the back of the other, and had then picked them up and carried them for
miles to shelter and nursing. And it was also declared by the romantic
that the man with the broken back recovered, while he with the shattered
leg, recovering also, found that his foot, pointing backwards, "made a
fool of his nose."

The Abbe de Casson's life had one affection, which had taken the place
of others, now almost lost in the distance of youth, absence, and
indifference. For France lay far from Montreal, and the priest-musician
was infinitely farther off: the miles which the Church measures between
the priest and his lay boyhood are not easily reckoned. But such as
Dollier de Casson must have a field for affection to enrich. You cannot
drive the sap of the tree in upon itself. It must come out or the tree
must die-burst with the very misery of its richness.

This night he was crowding into the music four years of events: of
memory, hope, pride, patience, and affection. He was waiting for some
one whom he had not seen for these four years. Time passed. More and
more did the broad sonorous notes fill the room. At length they ceased,
and with a sigh he pressed the violin once, twice, thrice to his lips.

"My good Stradivarius," he said, "my peerless one!" Once again he kissed
it, and then, drawing his hand across his eyes, he slowly wrapped the
violin in a velvet cloth